Please, I have nothing left of you but
this,
and it is a thing I do not sacrifice with
ease.
Understand, that nostalgia is a virus
I grow weary of nurturing,
and memory has grown heavy with age.
Your words were bright within me once,
and I, greedy, grown gluttonous with solitude,
devoured them, secreted them within time-worn
crevasses
where not even you could touch.
My greatest weakness, your sun-bright
words,
and my greatest mistake,
that I could not share them,
not even with you.
Please, your burden remains in me a simple
thing,
a lifeline to a life abandoned.
I am pulled, swayed, forced unwilling
by the influence of your impressive fortitude,
your undying brilliance.
Do you live in me?
Is that your ageless mechanism of survival?
I find myself enraptured, captivated by
the
spectacular miracle of your endurance.
I find myself swamped and sweaty with
dread,
that the parts of myself enchanted by
you will
never know emancipation.
Suicide of thought, I think,
these things I stand to lose.
(pieces of you and me, together in
frightening symbiosis -
sustained too long.)
Freedom is a thing of revolution and martyrs,
heroics and song and (yes) poetry.
Am I, in this excision, a hero?
Do I, with this cut, find freedom?
I have known, and nurtured, loss of a
thousand hues.
I do not justify losing you.
Understand, please, the choices made in
fever,
the knowledge gained by fear.
Finally, (so soon!) you are fading into
the light.
And I, alone, am left praying,
praying…